You can’t get enough, can you? Back here at my blog, sniffing around like a fox behind some bins. You want some, don’t you? You want a blog post, you naughty animal. Well, I’m going to give it to you.
Sorry about that intro, it seemed like a good idea eleven seconds ago. Now it seems like the outpourings of a syphilitic mind.
Let’s move very swiftly onwards. I was going to call this post “The Viper’s Footwear”, but I realized that Vipers don’t have feet. That irked me. It also irks me that my nickname is Viper and my wife has a serious fear of snakes. There’s something symbolic there, I’m sure. I digress, don’t I?
I titled this post using a quotation. I won’t tell you where the quotation is from. If you can find out, you will win a prize. I’m not sure what the prize will be. Maybe I’ll send you a pair of shoes. Maybe I’ll let you slip your hand into one of my shoes. You ought to be charged twenty pounds for that. “Is that all I get for twenty pounds? A feel.” That’s another quotation, but it’s much easier, so no prize. No. No prize for that. Don’t be so needy.
Let’s talk about shoes, baby, let’s talk about both my feet, let’s talk about boots and brogues, tongues and soles, we’re crazy… In my head, I sang that. You can sing it in your head, too. What larks!
As you probably know, you big stalker, I was at my friend’s on Friday night. He’s an angel of charity: he gives me his cast offs. Mrs Viper has referred to him as my ‘Sugar Daddy’, but I’ve pointed out that he never requires me to do anything sexual for his gifts. Occasionally we have a shirtless wrestle, but that’s normal for chaps our age. He’s not my Sugar Daddy. He’s NOT. I’m his Protege and he’s my Mentor. I’m the Charlie Mouse to his Bagpuss. This time his gift to me was shoes. There was a hat, too, but I gave that to my mother for dog-walking. It was that kind of hat. It really suited the dog.
Did you like my joke? My joke about hats and dogs? I’m quite proud of it.
I’ve said ‘shoes’, but I’ve deceived you. That’s the sort of man I am. There were also boots. I’ve decided to do something that my wife describes as a ‘Haul Post’. I don’t know if she made that up. She might have done. She’s probably trying to make me look stupid, just like the rest of you. I don’t care. I’m going to press on. TRIGGER WARNING: there will be pictures of footwear and detailed (often false) descriptions. Do not continue with this post if you are likely to be alarmed or aroused. Or both. Alaroused. Alarmingly aroused or arousingly alarmed. The words are losing all meaning. I think I had too much coffee earlier.
Are you seeing double?! No, you big plum, there are TWO pairs of shoes here. Count them! Two pairs. They are identical in every way but one. Have spotted it? That’s right, they’re different colours. These beauties slip on very nicely. The handy tabs near the tops of the boots mean that I don’t have to break out my emergency shoe horn. Have you seen the decorative perforations in the leather? That’s broguing, my friend. The word Brogue comes from Sir Anthony Brogue, a man afflicted by a harrowing skin complaint that left his entire body decoratively perforated. Brogued shoes were created to honour his contributions to the art of the British hand job. I shall be wearing the black pair of boots when I go out to a classy function this evening. Imagine that, eh? Me in my three-piece and my black boots with the broguing. Is it warm in here?
Look, I know it’s weird to post them in this orientation, but I genuinely cannot be bothered to turn the photo. I know it would take very little effort, stop judging me! Look at the damn shoes, you ingrates! A black pair and a brown pair. My friend feels the need to buy shoes in black AND brown from time to time. He has more money than sense. Luckily for me, I now have these beauties. They’re made by Doc Marten and I love the side buckles. Mrs Viper is less keen, but I’m my own man and I’ll do as I please! I’m not crying, you’re crying. Just look at the shoes.
Suffering Xerxes, will you get out of the way, cat?!
That’s better. No cat in this shot. Hard to see the broguing, though. Disappointing for all you perforation enthusiasts. He bought these shoes in Italy. They have the word Matterhorn on the sole. They are made from wolf penises. They’re a little on the tight side. (Have fun by trying to guess which of those ‘facts’ are true! Welcome to the post-truth world! Satire etc!)
Look at these bruisers. Burly slip-ons. They don’t have much to recommend them from a visual perspective. Stop being shallow, dear reader. These may not look much, but they feel like heaven. Slipping into these is a powerfully sensual experience. They have some kinda gel insole and the outer sole is impressively cushioning rubber. I find these almost obscenely comfortable. I slip into the warm interior. It’s firm but yielding, welcoming me into it’s loving grip. Every movement is met by a smooth caress that is positively thrilling. You may think I’m exaggerating, but I’m already researching the laws about shoe/man marriage. (I’ve just checked the soles and they’re made by Anatomic and Co. Check them out)
I shouldn’t have favourites. I don’t want my footwear to be emotionally unstable. I love each and every pair. You all have something special to recommend you, my leathery darlings. Believe me, I plan to wear the hell out of all you. Mhmm. I’m gonna wear some of you for dancing, some of you for functions and some of you for hard, physical work. I’ve got big feet and I do a lot of moving about. Every pair is going to get thoroughly used.
Re-reading this post makes me feel like I should have a bit of a think about myself and where I’m going in life. Maybe a bit more medication and therapy would help. I hope you don’t feel too weird.
Let’s pretend this whole sorry incident never happened, shall we?